Jim Taylor's Columns - 'Soft Edges' and 'Sharp Edges'

There’s a sadness to autumn as the leaves begin to fall. I used to look forward to what we called “Indian summer,” that precious period of bright sunny days and cool crisp nights, a brief oasis of pleasure before the world skids into winter.

But I have reached an age where falling leaves make me think of mentors who have also fallen to the cycle of seasons.

I was fortunate. Or blessed. Or something. I had some exceptional mentors over the years.

But alas, many have gone. By this time next year, a few more will have gone. I feel increasingly bereft.